


Tipping The Wheelbarrow or B&E and Blowies

by Terrantalen



Series: Boosh Fics [4]
Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Banter, Hijinks & Shenanigans, It's Improbable, M/M, Mature Howard Appreciation Fic, Nostalgia, Old Men Acting Like Kids, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Somehow They Manage To Do An Unlikely Number Of Sex Acts, Too Much Banter, but who really cares?, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26345542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen
Summary: Vince wants to do something special for Howard's fiftieth.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Series: Boosh Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565512
Comments: 19
Kudos: 35





	Tipping The Wheelbarrow or B&E and Blowies

The old neighborhood has changed. Shops have closed, new ones have opened (where once was a kebab place, now there’s a newsagent, where once there was a record shop, now there’s a place that sells pottery) but the streets are the same. If you look up at the skyline, it all falls back into place. Transfer paper gets laid over the streetlamps and buildings and there it is, just as it used to be.

Vince peeks over at Howard to see if he’s feeling the same sense of vertiginous nostalgia he is.

Howard sees him looking, “What?”

Vince smiles, “Nothing. Just, remember when we used to live round here?”

Howard huffs a laugh, “Of course I do, you moron.”

Vince laughs back, “Sorry, what with your advanced age and all...”

“Fifty isn’t that old.”

“It’s well old.”

“Yeah, well, we’re the same age,” Howard snipes.

“Not for a few more weeks,” Vince reminds him.

Howard rolls his eyes. In the dimness, he looks almost just as he had back then, back when these streets were their home. The age is smudged off his face like someone’s been at it with a tortillon, smoothing him down, taking his edges off, but then they pass under a streetlight and all the lines and creases get picked out in sharp relief, the crow’s-feet that have bred like rabbits under his eyes, the two little lines between his brows, the gentle cross-hatching on his forehead; he looks like he’s done a lifetime of scowling. 

He _has_ done a lifetime of scowling, but he’s earned those lines from other things too. Vince has been there to see a lot of them.

He can’t help smiling at him, can’t help looking at him. Howard’s recently grown a salt and pepper beard and his hair has gone almost wholly grey. It’s somehow wilder than it used to be, like it was just waiting for the boring color to get leached out of it so it could go mental. Or maybe it’s just using the same shampoo as Vince that’s done that. Point is, age suits Howard. It well suits him.

His wardrobe makes sense now. Bulky cardigans, corduroy jackets with elbow patches, even roll necks, they all look right on his body that has grown larger with age, only serve to emphasize everything about Howard that’s got softer and more comfortable with time. He still goes for the old Magnum P.I. shirts and sandals combos in the summer, and Vince does gripe about it, but it’s sort of… what? Pro bono? Pro forma? One of those, at any rate, griping. He’s basically got to, just so Howard knows Vince hasn’t been body-snatched. 

Vince’s eyes slide over Howard from head to toe and then back up. These days, Howard looks _good_ , really good. 

They pass out of the streetlight and into another patch of darkness and Vince watches Howard lose about fifteen years. Fact is, you can’t go back in time (but every once in a while)—

He fingers the key in his pocket. “Hey, you want to swing round where the shop used to be?”

Howard looks at him with a raised brow. He chews the inside of his lip. “I thought you were in a big rush to get home,” he says. “Isn’t that cookery show you like so much on tonight?”

“I’m taping it,” Vince says (listen to him, all archaic like that) (they are both well old) (well, not _that_ old) (yet). He feels his face go sly, “Come on, Howard. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, it’ll be a right laugh.”

“All right. I know you’re curious too. It’s only a little out of the way.”

Vince is wheedling. When Vince wheedles, Howard’s only really got one strategy to get him to stop. He’s been trying to come up with a different one for decades. Vince can see he’s still trying to come up with one even now. His little eyes go littler, squint down to flinty chips in his scowling face. They slide toward Vince, and Vince makes sure he’s ready for it.

Just big innocent eyes (nothing to see here) (just you and me and an evening stroll) (not even a whiff of anything amiss) (promise), and Howard gives up. 

He sighs. “Yeah, fine. Let’s go.”

Vince grins.

They walk the distance, through space, yeah, but also through a little bit of time. Vince, at least, is getting taken back. Things seemed to have changed less the nearer they get to the shop. The old Vietnamese is still there, the curry shop, even the Dixon’s has yet to shutter. 

Vince is young again, stupid and desperate for attention, willing to do just about anything to get it. He remembers galloping toward bright lights and meaningless faces, and thinking, the whole while, that he was happy doing it.

Fact is, he _was_ happy doing it, but _not like this_. He sidles closer to Howard and takes his hand.

Howard glances down at him and squeezes his palm.

They reach what was formerly the Nabootique. The shutters are down, the sign above is unlit, the shop is closed. Upstairs, Vince sees the blue flicker of a television screen.

“Here it is,” Howard says, looking upward. He lets go of Vince’s hand and peers in through the glass door, “Looks like a salon,” he says, “That should make you happy.”

“Is it?” Vince asks. He pushes by Howard and peeks through the glass. There are three chairs, and a long mirror on the wall where the piano still is. The bloody thing can’t be moved, apparently. Vince sees sinks and lines and lines of bottles on some shelves. The shop counter is still there, too, just where it used to be, though the till has been replaced by something that looks like it needs wifi to operate. “Looks nice in there,” he says. He glances up at Howard, “Want to get a closer look?”

“What do you mean?”

Vince slips the key out of his pocket and jangles it.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Never gave my copy back to Naboo when we moved out. Thought I’d lost it, but I was going through some old clothes the other day and I found it in my pocket. Bet you it still works.”

“That’s breaking and entering, Vince.”

“What? We’re just having a look around.”

“There’s someone upstairs you berk. Don’t you think that—”

“Stop worrying, Howard. We’ll slip in and out, quick like. Come on, just because you’re old doesn’t mean you have to be boring.”

Howard shakes his head, “If we get caught—”

“We’ll ring Naboo. He’ll bail us out. He always does.”

Howard waffles. “He’s never _literally_ bailed us out. What are you going to tell him when he asks why we…”

Howard, obviously, is anticipating Vince a little. He probably should do; it’s only been some forty years they’ve been mates, nearly half of which they’ve spent _together_. If he didn’t know what Vince has in mind by now, Vince would have to reevaluate who the thick one in the relationship is. “We’re not going to get caught, Howard,” Vince says, his hand coming to rest gently on Howard’s tweed-clad forearm. “We’re going to keep nice and quiet, yeah? We’ll be in and out and no one will be the wiser.”

“Vince—”

Vince slouches, tilts his face up and aims a well-practiced _look_ up at Howard. Howard’s eyes narrow again, but it’s different this time. Before he was exasperated. This time, he’s thinking what a little tart Vince is, what a wretched little slag. Vince pinches his tongue between his incisors, and there it is. Howard’s eyes boil over. He could take down a fucking moose with that look. 

Vince feels the slightest bit of tension in his trousers as he slips the key into the hole and turns it.

He opens the door by millimetres; slow, so as not to trigger the bell if one is still there. He hears a little metallic plink above him and his eyes dart back at Howard. Howard reaches up and catches the bell in his hand and Vince opens the door the rest of the way.

They creep inside (Howard keeps hold of the bell while Vince gingerly closes the door) and Vince takes a proper look around.

The floors have been redone and the walls have been painted. It looks _clean_ inside in a way it never did back when it was a second hand. Looks well trendy too, all black and red, grey and fuchsia, cheese plant in the corner, tiled surrounds above the sinks.

Vince looks toward the old piano and catches his face in the mirror instead. He gets lost for a moment. 

If age looks good on Howard, time has been kind to Vince. A lifetime of sunscreen and obsessive skincare has kept his face as smooth as it’s possible to be at (nearly) fifty. He’s thicker than he used to be though, less androgynous twiglet, more genderqueer Elvis. He’s mostly alright with how he’s aging, mostly alright with how he’s changed, but still, sometimes, he wishes—

Howard puts his hand on the small of Vince’s back and catches his eye in the mirror. Well, as long as he can still get Howard to look at him like that, how bad can it really be?

Vince turns and captures Howard in a kiss. His fingers play with Howard’s beard, sliding from his cheeks up into his hair. He wiggles himself close, so that he can feel Howard from hip to chest. Howard’s hands perch uneasily at Vince’s waist, and Vince really feels the time slipping off them now. 

Snogging in the shop, Howard nervous as a nun at a porno convention, both of them a little worried that someone will catch them (both of them a little worried the other might run off).

Vince starts pushing the jacket off Howard’s shoulders. Howard withdraws, “ _Vince_.”

Vince grins at him and tips his head toward the back room.

Howard has a good long think about it (probably about ten seconds of getting himself all worked up for nothing) (they both know he’s going to say _yes_ ) (but Howard’s got pro bono things he’s got to do, too) before he nods. Vince takes his hand and leads him to the back.

The storage cupboard has had a bit of a remodel. There’s a counter now and shelves full of hair product, but as interesting as hair product is to him under normal circumstances, Vince doesn’t bother having much of a look around. That’s not, after all, why they’re here. 

Instead, he pulls Howard into the cupboard and sucks onto him like a remora, like it’s those first early days. He kisses Howard like he’s not sure how long he’s going to be allowed to keep doing it, he kisses him like he can’t get enough of it (fuck, he honestly can’t), he kisses him like he’s kissing the love of his life (probably because he is).

Howard’s hands slide up his back, hold him on either side of his rib cage as Vince presses him backward. Vince snakes a hand under Howard’s jacket, cups his tit, and Howard stumbles. He bumps into the shelves and the bottles rattle. Vince traces his thumb over the cotton of Howard’s button down, roughly where he supposes his nipple is. He’s hit the mark. 

Howard moans, and (yes) he’s there too. He’s feeling it; the desperation, the disbelief, the _holy shit, what the fuck, how the hell?_

Maybe they have got old, but some things never do.

This certainly never does.

Howard shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it down between them. Vince rucks Howard’s shirt up, absolutely needing, now, to get at his tits.

“Let me,” Howard gasps, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Fine fucking idea, really. Vince starts undoing his buttons from the other end and they meet in the middle. Vince shoves the shirt aside and he dips his face down. He sucks, licks, kisses, and slurps at the tight, pink nubs on Howard’s chest.

Howard starts _whimpering_ like a fucking jellyfish sat atop a trombone, wobbly and unsure, and just _letting Vince_.

It’s so good, Howard like this. Not shy, or covering himself up, but letting Vince enjoy every single inch of him, as much as he likes; lovely, beautiful, compliant Howard.

Vince kisses down his rounded belly, licks a whole long, wet trail straight down the middle (gives him a few gentle nips along the way), as he undoes Howard’s belt. He pops open his fly, then comes down on his knees atop the jacket (and Vince almost laughs because that’s Howard, thinking of Vince’s knees; no doubt he dropped it there just for this), and then yanks Howard’s trousers, pants and all, off his hips.

Vince licks his lips. He looks up at Howard (who he can just barely see looking down at him in the dim) and then kisses along the underside of his prick.

“We used to,” Vince whispers against Howard’s cock. He slides his tongue in a nice little 360 around the head (Howard chokes back a groan as his hips arch forward). “Fuck, how many times, you reckon?”

“I don’t know,” Howard says, “more than one, fewer than... ten thousand.”

Vince chuckles as he tucks his teeth behind his lips and takes Howard’s cock in his mouth. He slides down, then back up, “So, about three?”

Howard laughs, then hisses as Vince rolls Howard’s balls in his palm. He wraps his other hand around the base of Howard’s cock and then dives back onto him. 

Howard leans back, his fingers latch onto the shelf behind him. He’s breathing hard, but he’s keeping quiet; all Vince can hear in the dark is the sound of his own mouth slurping up and down, of his hand pumping Howard, and the occasional hitch in Howard’s breath, the moans that he catches in the back of his throat at the last second. He’s doing really well, noise-wise. Can’t hurt, then, to go for a little more.

He slides his hand from Howard’s balls to his perineum and teases up at the crevice of his arse with his finger.

“Mmph?” Vince asks, his mouth (obviously) full.

Howard groans (a real gold-star groan) (too loud) (too risky) (the sort of thing that really might get them caught). “If you’ve brought lube with you.” 

Vince reaches into his trouser pocket, presses a packet against Howard’s stomach. 

Howard takes it from him, “Of course you have. Christ.”

Vince hears Howard tear open the packet (he always does it so nice and neat) (the tiniest little bit of corner) and Vince waits for Howard to slick his fingers. It feels outrageously pornographic (Vince sucking Howard’s cock) (Howard slicking his fingers almost like he’s jerking Vince’s prick) the whole thing contributing to make Vince _extremely_ uncomfortable in his trousers. 

He takes his hand from Howard’s cock and unzips himself, can’t help giving himself at least a little bit of a mini wank with a slurry made up of his spit and Howard’s precum, but Howard spots him.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispers, “If you make yourself…”

He trails off. Shit, it’s been a long time since Howard’s gone shy like that, and it works a treat, just like it always has. 

Vince moans (and, yeah, he’s gone a bit loud now too).

“Fuck,” Howard gasps. He lets go of Vince’s fingers and Vince slips them around back, teases around Howard’s entrance. Howard spreads his legs and Vince’s prick pulses. 

He slows down on Howard’s cock a little—the concentration required to get his finger inside him demands a brief cessation of his determined head bobbing—but he keeps working Howard with his hand as he slips one finger past the muscle of his arsehole.

Howard’s breath hitches. He reaches down and grabs Vince’s shoulder. He’s got a way of saying Vince’s name when he’s close, sounds kind of like he’s being forced to say it, like he doesn’t actually want to admit that he needs to say it. He says it that way just then.

Vince slides all the way off Howard’s cock, as much too keep him from coming as anything. “Shh,” he says. “You’ve got to be quiet, yeah?”

“You’re the one who never shuts up,” Howard accuses, his irritation firmly back in place. 

“I shut up sometimes,” Vince says, his voice flatting down like a cat stalking prey. He kisses the tip of Howard’s cock, laps at the precum that’s collected at the bottom of the slit, “I’ve got to, sometimes.”

Vince changes the angle of his finger; probes up and a little more toward him and, yes, he’s found it. 

Howard gasps, shocked. He always seems so fucking surprised at how easily Vince can find his way to where he needs to be. 

“Oh, fuck,” Howard groans, “Christ.”

“Is it good, Howard?” Vince asks.

Howard doesn’t answer him. Instead, he spreads his legs further apart. Vince’s prick is getting impatient, but Howard is so beautiful like this, nearly _there_ , that Vince can’t help it. He wraps his lips around Howard’s cock once more. Howard chokes down a moan.

Vince can’t see him, but he knows what Howard looks like anyway. He should do; he’s seen it a million times. He knows how Howard’s eyes are squeezing shut, how his brows are drawing together, how his whole face is going as tight and pinched as a knotty old oak tree. Vince smiles around his cock, because, yeah, that never really gets old either. That _look_ on Howard’s face (and Vince bringing him to the edge) (tipping the wheelbarrow) (and then)—

He stops. He pulls off Howard’s cock, withdraws his finger from inside him; stops touching him altogether. 

Howard is panting in the dark, “Oh, fuck you,” he whispers. “Jesus, is this really the time and place for—”

“S’your birthday,” Vince reminds him.

“I know. That’s why you should just suck me off and have done, not torture me.”

“This is torture?” Vince asks.

“ _Yes_.”

Vince hums. He stands up and starts pulling his trousers down. 

Howard’s breath catches in his throat. “You’re unbelievable. You… you’re really going to have a go at bumming me in the storage cupboard? We could just be in bed like—”

“Yeah, like a couple of half-dead, toothless old gimmers.”

“Like _proper—_ ”

“ _Howard_ ,” Vince whines. Vince stands and wraps an arm around Howard’s back. He leans into Howard’s neck, kisses him under his ear, just where he knows Howard likes it, and presses his cock into Howard’s thigh.

Howard looks up at the ceiling, “Why do you _always_ have lube with you?”

“Emergencies,” Vince says, coiling his fingers around Howard’s cock.

Howard arches into the touch. He’s hard as a diamond. Vince slides his hand down Howard’s shaft and back up. Vince just wants to tease him a little, but, of course, there are two people in the cupboard, and Howard’s got ideas of his own.

Vince feels Howard’s palm slide under his cock and curl over the head. “How much of this did you plan?” he asks.

“Plan?” Vince asks like the word tastes of earwax, “I never plan anything.”

“You planned _this_ ,” Howard says. He wraps his hand loosely around Vince’s shaft and strokes him. Sensation starts prancing in Vince’s balls like an excited puppy, eager to be let out. Howard tsks, “Pretty sure I’m the one round here meant to do the plans.”

Vince’s breath hitches. He rolls his eyes at himself, “Come on, Howard. Let me.”

“Why should I?”

“Cause I want to,” Vince says.

“It’s my birthday. What about what I want?”

“What do you want, then?” Vince asks. Howard’s other hand lands on Vince’s hip. His hands are so big, that his fingers almost cover the whole of Vince’s arse. “Really?” Vince asks.

“It’ll be easier. We won’t need to sort a box, for one.”

“A box?”

“For you to stand on.”

“I don’t need a box.”

“Of course you do. It’s like a Shetland Pony trying to fuck a Clydesdale when you come at me.” 

Vince snorts. “You’re just worried that you’ll be too loud, shouting my name like you do when you get a bumming.”

Howard’s (thick) (long) fingers knead into the muscle of Vince’s arse. “I only do that because I know you like it.”

“I don’t think so.”

Howard hums, a deep, low growl that vibrates through Vince’s bones. He slides Vince’s foreskin down. Vince can feel fingers of sensation spreading out and getting frantic; his balls draw up tight. 

Vince hardly means to do it, doesn’t mean to let himself kiss Howard more than just a bit, but their lips meet, and scuffling ensues, and before Vince has properly decided who should really fuck whom, Howard has both of their pricks wrapped in a big, lubed fist, pumping them both, as he stoops, and Vince goes up on his toes, and then Howard pushes him back, and lifts him so that Vince is on the counter, which solves some of the height challenges, but makes it more difficult for Vince to thrust, but it hardly matters, because his hands are around Howard’s back, and grabbing Howard’s arse, and pulling him close. Vince comes with a moan that he suppresses against the meat of Howard’s shoulder.

Howard outlasts him only by seconds and then he’s saying Vince’s name, slumping forward, and pressing all of his big, beautiful body is as close to Vince as he can get it.

Vince’s heart beats fast, tries to break out of his chest. Vince is so in love, so achingly in love with the man in front of him. The years have tied them together in so many ways, and it’s all too much. Vince wants to freeze time, to keep this moment forever, press it between the pages of a book, and preserve it under glass.

“I love you,” Vince says, because he does and he can’t help it. 

Howard brushes his hair back with his clean hand. Presses a kiss onto his cheekbone, “I love—” he begins, then freezes. He tilts his head. _“Didyouhearthat?”_

Vince is about to scoff, to tell him that he’s being paranoid, but then something like the _creak of a step_ splits the air in two.

“Shit,” Vince mouths.

Howard pushes off him, starts groping around for his jacket, or for something to wipe themselves with, or _whatever_ , but it’s a bit dark, and Howard is well large, and the cupboard wasn’t really designed for a man of his proportions to go knocking about in it like it’s a fucking football pitch. So, naturally, he takes a shelf out with his shoulder and an entire fleet of bottles goes tumbling, all in less time than it takes Vince to slide off the counter.

The steps on the stairs pick up their pace. 

Piss and fuck and hell. 

Vince grabs Howard, then flips on the light. There is a box of tissues on the counter and Vince quickly raids it. His hands fly over Howard’s torso and cock to wipe him up a bit. “Get your trousers,” he says at the same time he’s pulling up his own. His prick is still a sticky mess, but he can live with the discomfort better than Howard can; better to get him clean as can be. They do up Howard’s shirt the same way they undid it, like a team, then Vince is scooping up Howard’s jacket and tossing it at him.

As a final touch, Vince pulls out his mobile before he picks up a bottle from the floor.

The door creaks.

Vince spins toward Howard. “Good job,” he snipes.

Howard is too dumbfounded to realize what he’s supposed to do at first, but then he sees Vince’s mobile and catches on. “You’re the one who left your bloody phone!”

“Yeah, well, you could have turned on the light before you went barging in here like a drunk water buffalo!” 

There is another sound near the door and Vince turns and catches Naboo peering into the cupboard. “Oh, hey, Naboo,” he says. “Sorry about the racket, but clumsy-tits knocked everything over.”

“Yeah, well, fucking Nicky Clarke forgot his damned mobile. Again.”

“It ain’t a crime, is it? Anyway, you’re s’possed to remind me.”

“I’m not your damned PA.”

“Obviously, because you aren’t even helping me pick up _your_ mess.”

Howard huffs a sigh and bends down to pick up a bottle.

Vince checks to see how their production has effected Naboo. 

He’s either not been taken in at all or been completely fooled. It’s difficult to tell with Naboo. Either way, he shakes his head. He looks over his shoulder, “You can put the bat down, Bollo. It’s just Howard and Vince. Probably came in to bum in the cupboard again.”

There is an affronted grunt from out in the hall. Vince laughs a little. Howard drops the bottle he’s holding, then clears his throat.

Naboo rolls his eyes. “Just lock up on your way out, yeah?”

“Sure,” Vince says.

“See you round, Naboo.”

Naboo closes the door. “Ballbags,” he says just loud enough for Vince to hear.

“He might have said happy birthday,” Howard grumbles.

“Happy Birthday, Howard,” Naboo calls.

Howard grimaces.

Together, they pick up the bottles and put them away. By the time they’re done, it’s late, and Vince feels terribly in need of a shower. He’s sure Howard does, too.

So, they lock up, and go home, then wash up and get into bed. Howard pulls Vince against him and Vince closes his eyes.

“Was your birthday alright, Howard?” Vince asks.

“Yes.”

“Got everything you wanted?”

“Almost,” Howard says.

“What’d I miss?” Vince asks, opening his eyes.

“We broke into our own salon, had an argument in the storage cupboard, and nearly got caught having sex by our best mate. You didn’t miss anything. I just didn’t get to say… I love you too.”

Vince smiles. He snuggles up against Howard’s chest and turns his head so he can hear the thump of his heart. He closes his eyes and falls asleep with the beat of the whole world playing just for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely Kateyboosh and Killahdillah for giving this a preliminary read and encouraging me to post it. Double thanks to Katey for the title inspiration, and thanks to all of you for reading!


End file.
